Camouflage
by vallennox
Summary: "C'mon, it's just a thrilling, interesting, lovely little bet."


**Title**: Camouflage

**Pairing**: Arthur/Eames

**Warning**: No warning, nothing naughty.

**Word count**: 2,471

**Disclaimer**: No, I own nothing.

**A/N**: written for a friend who told me she "wanted to see what Arthur looks like dressed in Eames' T-shirt", and I came up with…this.

* * *

**Camouflage**

"No, this is stupid."

He hadn't realized he was speaking too loud; the whole team turned their curious gaze towards Eames and him, before quickly looked away under the point man's ice-cold glare. "I've had enough of your madness, Mr. Eames." Arthur hissed, "Now leave me alone, or I'll force you to do so."

"C'mon, it's just a thrilling, interesting, lovely little bet."

"I don't make bets with con men."

"Surely I'm differ-"

"Especially you, Eames."

Cobb cleared his throat, so unnaturally loud that Arthur thought he might have his vocal cord torn. The team reunited two weeks ago for a new job, a legal one, and it was also the first job Cobb had taken since inception, maybe that's why the extractor was taking it very seriously. "Ah, chieftain's not happy." Eames whispered, "We'll talk about this tonight, darling."

"No, we won'-"

Eames had already walked away, humming a stupid nursery rhyme as he went back to his own desk. Ariadne made a muffled sound that was halfway between a giggle and a cough. When Arthur turned his attention to her, the architect flashed him the most innocent smile in the world.

Arthur wanted to burn down this damn warehouse.

—

"I've reconsidered the rules." Eames announced, as he strode into Arthur's hotel room that same night, oblivious to the can't-you-see-how-much-I-want-to-strangle-you look on the point man's face. "…the former ones are unfair to you, now you'll have one more chance to crack my forgery-"

"Eames."

"Two more chances, then?"

"I'm not playing this ridiculous game with you."

There was a pause.

"I see." Eames said thoughtfully. His face was solemn when he leaned closer to Arthur, as if to share a life-or-death secret, "you're afraid to lose, darling. You refuse me so as to protect your fragile self-esteem."

"Thank you, Mr. Freud. Now would you please leave my room?"

"No, darling, how am I going to entertain myself without you?"

"There exists a thing called television, Mr. Eames. You can watch it with Ariadne, or Yusuf, if you do feel that lonely."

"I'm only asking for fifteen minutes of your time, Arthur. Allow me to explain this simple, highly entertaining game again. We go under, I'll be hiding in a bunch of projections, and you have three chances to expose me. Just pull the trigger when you feel sure. I bet the shooting-in-the-head part is most enticing to you."

"It'll be more enticing if I can do it right now."

Eames ignored his remark, "I'll be the dreamer, if you get it right, the dream collapses, you win, and I'll stuff myself into a three-piece suit everyday for a whole bloody week, does it sound interesting now?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed, "What if I get it wrong?"

"Then, pet, you'll have to wear T-shirts and jeans for a week, but don't you worry, I'll pick the T-shirts for you from my very own wardrobe."

"That's precisely what I'm worrying about." Arthur rolled his eyes, "did you say I have three chances?"

Eames smirked, "I knew you would always indulge my fancy ideas, love."

—

_This is a trap_ was Arthur's first thought when he dived under.

He was standing in the middle of a busy train station.

He wondered if Eames had ever been to India, because this place was a suspicious combination of Paddington Station and New Deli Railway Station. People constantly pushed and jostled him. Arthur struggled to get away from the dense crowd, more elbows and suitcases jabbed him. While he was vaguely thinking about the possibility of being squeezed to death, a little girl bumped into him, Arthur caught her elbow before she hit the ground. She looked up at him in bewilderment, then she began to sob, tears trickling down her tiny face. "I want Mama and Papa." she demanded, "Where's-where's Mama?" Her sob broke into a desperate cry, or rather, a howl, in Arthur's opinion. He patted her back clumsily, hoping they were not attracting too much attention.

"This is hard, no?" he heard someone whispered. Arthur turned on his heels abruptly, but all he could see were swarms of travelers with the same tired look on their faces. The little girl went on calling for her mother, her voice sharp as a scalpel.

"Look at you, darling, you're confused." Another voice cut in, a hoarse and shaky one; Arthur turned round, just in time to receive a toothless grin from a scrawny old man. The point man was about to grab his dirty collar when someone tapped his shoulder.

"Let me make this easier for you, Arthur." said the middle-aged man in dark-blue uniform. Arthur's eyes dashed to the old man then bounced back to him, shocked. "How did you-I've never heard of-"

"It's a new trick, pet." a mild female voice told him. A young woman approached him with the little girl in her arms. The daughter wrapped her arms around her mother's neck, her face was still wet with tears, but she looked content. Her father grinned at Arthur, "This is why I want you to come down here with me." he shrugged, "…to see how it works."

"Now there are five of us." said the middle-aged man in uniform.

"You'll have to decide." said the old man.

"Which is the real _me_." the girl giggled.

All Arthur wanted to do was shoot himself and wake up, but that way he'll lose the game and failure means Eames' terrible T-shirts and endless teasing and Dom's disapproving look and an avalanche of questions from Ariadne. No, definitely no. He's not going to lose. Clenching his Browning, he scanned their faces; all of them looked…normal, or, perfect, in the sense of forgery in dreamscape.

He shot the man in dark-blue uniform.

Everything in the train station went completely still. The silence was so dense that he could feel its weight on his shoulders. He waited, nothing happened. Arthur swore under his breath.

The little girl laughed. "Sorry, darling, I'm here." she said sweetly, winking, "I knew you wouldn't shoot this lovely little thing."

"But how did you-"

"You sound like a five-year-old, sweet, now let's go somewhere less crowded."

"Eames-"

The train station rippled, then faded, Arthur blinked, and found himself standing in an empty entrance hall with high ceiling and shiny marble floor. Sunlight poured in through huge windows like golden waterfall. It was a museum, or a library, or a gallery. Eames was so good at making things ambiguous. Arthur made his way to the stairs, his footsteps echoed hollowly within this immense cement box.

The corridor on the second floor led to an open door, beside which sat an overweight security guard. Arthur doubted if the guy could run down a flight without panting like an asthmatic. The man had dozed off. Arthur walked past him without being noticed.

There was an exhibition, or what seemed like an exhibition, being held in the room. A handful of people wandered from stand to stand. Arthur looked around without really focusing on anything. He tried to recall each and every forge of Eames he'd seen, the blonde (Eames' favorite), the black-haired college professor (on the Miquel job almost three years ago), the teenager with a scar on his forearm (the Bryson job, centuries ago). Wait a minute, can this help? Eames can always come up with something…

"Excuse me?"

…Something new and unexpected? He nearly jumped at that soft _excuse me_, "Sorry," he mumbled, "I was, um…"

"You've been staring at this blank wall for over fifteen minutes." the woman in purple silk dress smiled, she had charming dark eyes, "I was wondering why."

"…because I was waiting for someone to accost me."

The woman's eyes widened in horror at the sight of Arthur's Browning.

Arthur shot her in the head.

People screamed, racing to the door like frightened animals. Within seconds the room was empty except for him and the dead woman. He heard someone chuckled, and looked up from the corpse.

The security guard gave him a quirky smile, toying with his truncheon.

_No_. Arthur moaned, inwardly.

"You're empirical, violent and predictable. Are you aware of that, pet?"

"Drop the forge before you talk, Mr. Eames."

"…never knew you liked my face that much, darling." The guard shrugged, melted into the grey-eyed British man.

"It's slightly better than the bald security guard's."

"…'slightly'?" the forger intoned, "Arthur dear, your harsh words stabbed me like a dagger." he placed his palm over his chest, pretending to be shuddering in agony. Arthur looked away, trying not to smile.

"Last chance, pet," Eames told him, emphasizing _last_, "By the way, what's your favorite color? I should start thinking about your Monday shirt."

"What you should start thinking about is your Monday suit, Mr. Eames."

The forger smirked.

The dreamscape changed.

—

A dingy, smoke-filled room.

For at least two minutes Arthur had no idea where he was, but the noise, the heat and the acrid odor kept nudging his memory till he realized with surprise and irritation that this was a restaurant hidden in one of the many dusty alleys in downtown Havana, where he and Eames first met.

Arthur fumbled his way through a maze of shaky tables and decrepit chairs. He needed fresh air, and the heat is getting unbearable. Someone called out his name, the point man froze, one hand on the doorknob, he knew the voice so well, and the accent…damn the accent.

He sat down at a table by the grimy window, "You are kidding." he said, staring at the forger.

_Forgers_, to be exact. Two Eames beamed at him.

"An absolutely necessary precaution, darling, in case someone impersonates me in your dreams. Better be prepared."

"That unfortunate someone will certainly regret doing so when I shoot him into pieces."

"Always so violent."

"I'm not violent, unless I'm with you."

Both Eames shrugged. The sight was weird; the projections around them stirred like provoked bees, looking more and more hostile. Arthur shifted in the uncomfortable chair. They wouldn't have much time left before their subconscious went haywire and tore them into pieces, thanks to Eames' mindless double-je trick.

"Keep talking." Arthur said.

Eames (the one on the left) raised his eyebrows, "I _must_ record this, love, most of the time I was told 'shut up'."

"That's because I hate you most when you're babbling, never mind, keep talking to me, so that I can tell the difference between you and your twin."

Both Eames grinned, "Too bad we're identical twins."

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"It feels so good to have you as my audience, pet." Eames (the one on the right) tipped back his chair, "What do you want to hear?"

"Anything you have to say."

"I'm extremely flattered, sweet. Can you be this nice to me when we go back up there?"

"No."

The forger chuckled. Arthur thought he would never figure out what amused him. The projections are openly staring at them now. "Tell me how you manage to manipulate your subconscious." Arthur blurted out, forgetting all about tactics and patience.

"I don't." Eames (the one on the left) smiled, "I can't control my subconscious, no one can."

"In that train station…"

"I built them, the same way architects build cities."

Arthur frowned in puzzlement.

"Let's put it this way," Eames rubbed his chin, "imagine you've created several different teacups, you pour into each a part of yourself. They may take on different shapes, but it's still _you_ inside them. Meanwhile your real self stays in the teapot." he grinned, complacently, "I call the teacups 'Camouflage'."

"Bad naming."

"You got something better?"

"….'Limbs'?"

Eames looked at him sympathetically, "Imagination just can't grow in that pretty head of yours, right, love?"

"I'll appreciate it if you can—" Arthur started, then trailed off. He stood up abruptly, as though his chair was on fire. Both Eames stared at him with unconcealed surprise.

"You." the point man said to the Eames sitting on his left side, "you're the teacup." he turned to the one on the right, "and you, you're the damn teapot."

The forger (the one on the right) raised his eyebrows. "Impressive, pet, did a little angel on your shoulder tell you that?"

Arthur shot him in the head before he could blink.

—

They woke up in Arthur's hotel room. None of them spoke.

Eames rolled on his side, "How did you know?"

Arthur turned his face to look him in the eye, "pet name."

"I'm listening."

The point man cleared his throat, his ears turned pink, when he started to talk he was speaking so fast that each word crashed into the last, "well you only call me 'love' when you're serious and 'pet' is used when you're joking or teasing but most of the time you're content with 'darling'. 'Sweet', 'dearest' and 'sweetheart' are less frequently used by comparison." his face turned absolutely red now, "your 'teacup' kept calling me 'love', so I figured he might be a fake."

Eames smirked, "Is it true?"

"What."

"That I only call you 'love' when I'm serious."

"Damn it, Eames, how would I know."

"Seriously, did you secretly make a chart or something like that for this?"

Arthur busied himself with the PASIV device.

"Jesus, you've _actually_ made a chart for this."

"Shut up."

"I'm honored to have your sedulous attention, love."

"I said shut the hell up, Eames."

They lay there side by side in silence for a long time.

—

"I won the game." Arthur firmly stated the following morning, "and I'd die before I put on that ugly _thing_." he pointed an accusing finger at the candy pink T-shirt lying innocently on the dresser. The worst thing about it was not the color, nor the size, but the ridiculous cartoon peach on the front and the even more ridiculous caption "yeah I'm a real peach". Arthur would rather be naked.

"Ah, no, my love, you didn't _win_." Eames clicked his tongue, "you just didn't lose _completely_. Final score 2-1, the forger wins."

"You despicable—"

"—liar, I know." the forger chuckled, "never make bets with con men, darling. Now try it on, I've made sure the color _doesn't_ go well with you."

He ducked deftly when Arthur threw a book at him.

Later, when Arthur showed up in their base a whole hour later than usual, Ariadne tipped off a paper cup of steaming tea and hastily groped in her backpack for something that could rescue her blueprint from destruction; Cobb chocked on his coffee, and there was the sound of breaking glass from Yusuf's makeshift laboratory.

Eames was gloating. "What a grand entrance, pet."

"Don't talk to me; I'm planning on revenge."

The forger whistled, "I'm certainly going to have nightmares tonight."

Arthur ignored him. Next time when they dream-share, he'd make sure Eames understands the exact meaning of "nightmare".

End.

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Thank you for reading❤


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